


Granted

by bittlebarnes (monroesherlock)



Series: Fae!Jaskier Verse [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, At least happy-ish, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Eating, Creature Inheritance, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Dark, Fix-It, Frottage, M/M, Overuse of italics, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Shapeshifting, Wishes Gone Wrong, blindfolded sex, faerie!Jaskier, since so many of you have asked I promise a happy ending, strange imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monroesherlock/pseuds/bittlebarnes
Summary: Jaskier feels it the moment the words leave Geralt’s lips. A rush of energy flooding from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes.‘Oh no,’ he thinks. The magic spills from him like wine from a glass and before he can grab it, it’s done. He’s bound. Geralt’s wish has been granted.Edit*Now it's a story I guess. Also note the rating change.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fae!Jaskier Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903468
Comments: 400
Kudos: 3859
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for this fandom. Still trying to get my fingers around these characters.

[ ](https://imgur.com/0oY12yF)

_“_ _Man is wicked. All man knows how to do is_ **_take_ ** _.”_

Jaskier feels it the moment the words leave Geralt’s lips. A rush of energy flooding from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. 

_‘Oh no_ ,’ he thinks. The magic spills from him like wine from a glass and before he can grab it - 

It’s done. 

He’s bound. 

Geralt’s wish has been granted. 

When Geralt turns away, Jaskier feels a pull at his navel that propels his feet forward.

Geralt cannot lay eyes on him again, he knows. He must move quickly.

He walks.

And walks.

And walks.

There’s a hollow feeling in his chest that simply won’t go away. His mother had warned him of this, he thinks. It won’t be long until he _changes_.

He wanders.

When did he lose his shoes? They were expensive.

Cintra falls.

People are stingier with their coin in the face of war.

Jaskier plays anyway. 

He realizes he hasn’t eaten in days. He isn’t hungry. 

His singing voice sounds foreign to his ears, audience eyes glazing over at points during his performances.

Jaskier wants to go home.

Where is home now?

He finds himself staying close to the forest when he’s not playing for crowds. It’s grounding to have his bare feet in contact with the earth. When he sings, it’s like the trees sing with him. 

He catches glimpses of his reflection when passing through puddles and streams and wonders if he finally looks like his mother. It won’t be long before he has her glowing eyes and sharpened teeth, he knows—magic costs. Wishes cost even more. Granting them? That cost at the _fundamental_ level. 

Jaskier never wanted to grant wishes, was warned against it when he was young. Granting wishes is a _fae_ gift. To do so would cost him his humanity. 

He always knew it would be a severe price to pay but the _reality_ -

 _It’s so much worse_.

-

They run parallel to each other, he and Geralt. Never within each other’s line of sight. He can always feel when the witcher is near. There’ll be a sudden pull at his core, his magic quickly dragging him from Geralt’s path. He catches glimpses. White hair and broad shoulders. Geralt never turns around, or rather when he does, Jaskier is already gone.

He hears from a barmaid that the White Wolf has been seen traveling with a young girl. From a young stable boy that there’s a sorceress traveling with them as well. Jaskier hums a tune and tries to cast protection around the child like he did so many years ago. She’s going to need it.

Winter comes.

The cold is irritating. Jarring. He longs for greenery, for grass in between his toes. He stumbles through the snowy woods, his body slowing. He finds a hollow in a tree, climbs inside with his lute, and allows himself to fall asleep.

When he wakes - 

The world has thawed.

He wiggles himself from his hiding place and breathes in the fresh spring air. His hair has grown. It falls into his eyes. There’s moss growing on his lute.

He walks.

He wanders.

He finds himself in a small wooded town.

He spies a girl with gold-spun hair in the distance, brushing down a familiar horse. 

Ciri. 

He wants to go to her, but there’s a pull in his gut guiding his feet in the opposite direction. 

Geralt. 

He must have been a step away from Geralt’s sightline. He wonders if the witcher can smell him. Could he even recognize Jaskier’s scent now? Has he changed that much?

“Jaskier?” His ear’s prickle at the familiar voice. He turns. It’s Yennefer. She’s dressed plainer than he’s ever seen here in breeches and a plain tunic. Her perfect brows are drawn together, confusion clear on her face. He’s never heard her not at ease. Especially around him. “You look… different.”

He knows.

“It was a rough winter,” he supplies, his voice scratching against his throat.

“You’ re-I thought you were human.”

“I was. Now I’m not,” he shrugs. She’s wearing a ring. It’s shiny. His fingers itch.

“Geralt-”

The tug is back and stronger than before. Jaskier moves quickly, his body weaving in between the townsfolk without his say so. The back of his neck starts to burn-

It spreads down to his shoulders, and it feels like he’s on _fire_. He picks up his pace-

“Jaskier-,” Geralt is close.

His entire body is burning-

The treeline is just ahead. Jaskier breaks into a sprint. He runs through the trees. He can hear Geralt’s feet padding through the underbrush. The burning has spread down to his arms. To the middle of his back.

He ducks behind a tree, putting it in between himself and Geralt. 

“Please stop,” he croaks.

Geralt stops. All Jaskier can hear is his own ragged breathing. The burning sensation is retreating.

“Jaskier…” Geralt’s voice is soft, contemplative.

“Stay where you are,” Jaskier says, “don’t come closer.”

“I can leave. I shouldn’t have followed you...Yennefer. She said you’d...changed.”

“I granted your wish. And now...now I’m _this.”_

Geralt doesn’t speak, but Jaskier can hear him getting closer, his steps careful and quiet.

“Please stay back. You can't-you can’t see me. It hurts if you see me.”

Geralt’s steps have stopped again. Jaskier can hear his breathing. 

“Just go, Geralt. I promise to behave. If I don’t...well, silver’s for monsters, right?”

He doesn’t have to see Geralt’s face to feel his distress. 

That makes two of them.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

They won't let him leave. He walks carefully behind Geralt the entire way back to the village. He briefly gets distracted by the birds - they're singing -

Yennefer tugs him along. 

Ciri looks at him curiously but shrugs. She must be used to strange occurrences by now. What's one more?

Yennefer deposits him into her and Ciri's room away from Geralt and calls for a bath.

"No offense, but you smell terrible," she says.

"I slept all winter. Just woke up a few days ago. Haven't had time for a bath." Jaskier yawns. He could honestly sleep again. He climbs down from her plush bed and settles onto the floor. The skin of his neck and shoulders itches. He tugs at the fabric of his old doublet before he decides to just yank it off. The backs of his arms are blistered and red. It must be the same on his shoulders and neck, he thinks. Burned. He knows from Yennefer's silence that she sees them.

"Faerie blood," he supplies, "on my mother's side. You understand, of course," he flashes her a knowing glance. She appears so much clearer to him now. Not so fearsome. Everything looks clearer to his new eyes.

"Faeries...Jaskier faeries haven't been seen on the continent for years. Centuries even," she breathes.

"They choose to be unseen. I haven't figured that part out yet obviously," he gestures to his arms, "but I'm sure it will come with time. My humanity's fading with every passing day. In no time, I'll be just another monster. Tricking villagers and stealing children." He hears Ciri's breath hitch at that and carefully doesn't meet her eyes. It's not like that's what he  _ wants _ . But he hadn't  _ wanted  _ to grant Geralt's wish either. 

He brings his knees up to his chin and wraps his arms around them. The pain he felt is negligible now.

"There's no cure to Fae magic," Yennefer says wistfully. She's sitting in a chair across from the bed, observing him. 

"'What is, is until it isn't.' My mom used to say that. This is. And it will be until it isn't. Whether that's tomorrow or a hundred years from now," Jaskier shrugs. He's getting antsy so far from the safety of the treeline. That hollow tree sounds lovely. He could sleep for another  _ season _ . 

Yennefer shakes her head, but she doesn't quite seem aware of the action like it's happening outside of her control. Strange.

Yennefer's always in control, Jaskier thinks. Or maybe she was. 

"I have to-I'll go next door and talk to Geralt," she says finally, "he needs to know what's going on."

"I know he can hear everything I say. He knows." Jaskier looks to the thin wall separating them. He can imagine Geralt on the other side. The purse of his lips. The furrow of his brow. The clenching of his fist. "It's not your fault," he says quietly, "you didn't know. I never told you."

Something shatters next door like it's been thrown against the wall. Jaskier hopes that whatever it was, it wasn't expensive. 

He can hear Geralt's feet padding out of his room, down the stairs, and out of the inn. 

"One of you should go to him. Before he does something stupid. He's outside," he tells them.

In the end, both Yennefer and Ciri go leaving him alone in the strange room.

-

He refuses to sleep in the little inn.

"I'm sure it's pleasant enough, but I have somewhere to sleep. I'm not going anywhere." 

"You could stay and have some ale," Yennefer tries. The thought sends his stomach roiling. When was the last time he ate or drank  _ anything _ ? The mere notion tastes like ashes in his mouth. 

He shakes his head. He needs to go. 

Geralt still hasn't come inside.

Isn't that the kicker. He and Geralt have been apart for so long, and the moment Jaskier comes back into his life, he wrecks his new family. 

Isn't this how it's supposed to be the wonders? Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri. Destiny realized.

Jaskier has no role in this grand destiny.

He's just a boy with a flighty faerie mother and a haughty viscount father who wanted more from life. 

He's gotten what he always wanted he supposes.

More.

In the end, they can't  _ make  _ him do anything. Yennefer has magic, sure.

But so does he.

There's nothing that can stop him from leaving-

So he does. 

He grabs his lute and walks.

-

It's dark out. He didn't realize how much time had passed. He sees Roach before he sees Geralt. The witcher is brushing her down, his eyes focused on the task at hand. 

"Geralt?" He calls.

The witcher very deliberately  _ does not look up.  _ Jaskier appreciates the effort. Though the pain ends shortly, the blisters are unpleasant. He walks towards the two of them, letting Roach stand between him and Geralt.

"I meant what I said. I don't blame you."

"You should. I do. I did this to you."

"You said something in anger. How were you supposed to know how my magic would react?  _ I didn't _ know." Jaskier runs his fingers down her shoulder, something he would have never dared to do before. He has no fear of Roach now.

He's closer to her than he is to humans.

"What's done is done. No point dwelling on it." Jaskier hums. A light wind blows. Dandelions suddenly unfurl and bloom in Roach's mane.

When he looks up-

There's also one in Geralt's hair.

  
  


The witcher doesn't remove it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the overwhelming response, I decided to add a second chapter. I'm taking my time with this story. Likely I'll end up treating it as a series of vignettes rather than one continuous work. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos. To those of you who asked specific questions, I'll get to you soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier's hollow tree has found new overnight guests in his absence. A family of chipmunks has taken refuge there for the night, and Jaskier hates the thought of displacing them. There are other places to sleep.

He finds an old, abandoned badger den hidden deep in the underbrush. It's a tight fit to sleep in, but it'll be shelter from the cold evening air. He sets his lute down next to the entrance and shuffles himself down into the sett. 

No one will touch it.

He sleeps.

When he wakes, he is no longer alone. There's a family of rabbits curled up next to him. They’re small enough that he can disentangle himself without waking them, but he’s reluctant to leave the warmth of the sett. He climbs out into the fresh morning air and stretches his limbs. The sun warms his face even through the trees. How had he not truly noticed the sun before all this? 

The birds have started singing. A combination of melodies that fills the air around him. Jaskier grabs his lute and whistles along with them. The forest fills with music.

It’s the way it should be, Jaskier thinks as he lets the sound wash over them. If every day is like this, his new existence may not be so bad.

-

The forest is alight with an absolutely  _ terrible _ noise. The trees are rattling and shaking in distinctly unnatural ways. The sounds of discordant howling reach the village, and Yennefer watches the locals rush back into their homes. Birds fly overhead in strange patterns, nearly blacking out the sky with a flurry of wings. 

The villagers look on nervously from their hiding places, some of them covering their ears and wincing at the cacophonous orchestra coming from beyond the trees.

There's a pit in Yennefer's stomach.

"It's him," she says. She didn't have to, she realizes. Geralt's face is enough to tell her he already knows. He's miserable, she thinks, more miserable than usual anyway.

Yennefer knows about getting the bad cut of a wish, but this is a new low. 

"Why is he doing this?" Ciri asks in a louder than normal voice. Her hands are placed securely over her ears to try and block out the unearthly noise. "Does he want to hurt them?"

"No," Geralt replies shortly, “he wouldn’t hurt anyone intentionally.” There's an adamance in his voice that sets Yennefer's teeth on edge. She’s not so sure Jaskier is so magnanimous. Everyone has limits. 

  
  


Even kindly bards.

  
  


Geralt eventually winces himself as the noise grows in volume. ‘

"Something must be wrong," he says before he turns to Ciri. “Go back to the inn and stay inside until I get back.” He catches Yennefer’s gaze, “both of you.”

“Geralt-”

"Oi! Witcher!” The innkeeper comes barreling their way. There’s blood dripping from his ears, and Yennefer is reminded of the delicate nature of humanity. 

“There's clearly a beast in our woods!" He says, “I’ll let you keep the room for you and your companions for free for the night if you can best it.” 

Geralt looks sick but nods. “It’ll be dealt with. Mind my horse.” Yennefer watches as Geralt takes off into the wood and decides-

She can’t let him go alone.

Not if Jaskier is as dangerous as she thinks he is. 

-

Jaskier was always so prissy, she thinks. Always well put together in expensive fabrics and delicate perfumes. He and Geralt had always made such an odd pair.

The man (man?) sitting in the clearing before her now is unfamiliar.

His dark hair is longer than she's ever seen it. It curls around his chin, moss interspersed amongst the locks. It's off-putting to look at him directly - almost like she's staring into the sun.

He's strumming aimlessly at his lute, clawed fingers expertly plucking the strings. He sings, but there are no clear words? At least not in any language she knows.

When he finally notices them, he smiles revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth and Yennefer is  _ really  _ not comfortable with this -

"Jaskier?" Geralt calls. He keeps a gloved hand over his eyes and carefully steps forward.

"Good morning, all," Jaskier says as he strums another note on his lute. The trees seem to vibrate around them in answer.

Yennefer winces.

"Jaskier," the witcher says, "you have to stop this."

"Stop what?" Jaskier asks absently, his clawed fingers never halting in their movements. 

"The music-Jaskier it's not fit for human ears." Geralt tries, "if it continues, it could kill someone. It could kill the entire village." 

Jaskier's fingers halt, a frown settling on his unnatural face. The forest stills and somehow that  _ worse- _

"Well...that's unfortunate." He looks down at his lute, a childlike confusion overtaking his features. "But, I love my music."

"You can't-the villagers have asked me to stop you,” Geralt keeps moving forward until he’s steps away from Jaskier.

"So you're here to kill me?" Jaskier tilts his head slightly. He doesn’t sound afraid. 

Just sad.

"Jaskier-no-I don't want to hurt you." Geralt drops his hand but keeps his eyes closed. "I never wanted to hurt you. But the music-you can’t-you have to stop."

Jaskier bites his lip. 

"I don't know who I am if I can't sing," he whispers. Tears spill down his cheeks, glittering like precious stones.

"Jaskier, magic takes time to master. Once you master yours-" Yennefer tries, but something is happening-

Jaskier's body is trembling.

  
  


His mouth opens, and he  _ screams- _

  
  
  
  


And then he's gone.

His roughened clothing and lute are all that is left. Geralt's eyes are open as he rushes forward.

Something is moving in Jaskier's clothing. Yennefer raises her hand because if Geralt won’t,  _ she will _ . 

Geralt is bent over Jaskier’s clothing, his back shielding whatever it is from her sight. When he turns, his eyes are closed again, and his hands are cupped in front of him. There in his hands is a tiny brown bird.

A lark. 

  
  


Jaskier has turned himself into a fucking lark.

The little bird shakes himself and lets out a trill. He hops from Geralt's hands to his shoulder and trills again. Buttercups sprout from Geralt's snow white hair. Jaskier's little body shakes animatedly before he leaps into the air and disappears into the trees, a last discordant echo sounding off before the forest goes eerily silent again.

Geralt opens his eyes, his gaze wistful.

  
  


What a picture he makes, Yennefer thinks, the white wolf struck silent by the little lark.

She secretly hopes they never see the bird again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been collecting images and I'd like to make some aesthetic sets but I have no idea where to post them. This is such a self-indulgent series of vignettes.


	4. Chapter 4

They’ve been traveling for some months, the three of them. Geralt takes work when he finds it, but he’s more cautious. If he dies, he leaves Ciri unprotected. As the war nears closer to them, they begin to avoid the bigger cities and main roads. Times will get even harder, he knows. It’s not the worst he’s ever experienced. The world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket, and for now, there’s still little he can do about other than keeping Ciri safe.

So that’s what he’ll keep doing. 

They’ll endure. 

Spring passes.

Then summer.

The air is starting to bite at Geralt’s cheeks, and he knows autumn will settle in soon. Ciri will need a new cloak. New gloves soon after. It’s just more things to take care of.

Yennefer leaves for Aretuza one autumn day when Tissaia calls. Every day the war marches closer to them. To Ciri. Yennefer has to go. 

She promises to return to them as soon as she’s able. 

She hugs Ciri tight and gives Geralt’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Before he can blink, she’s gone.

He knows she’s coming back, but her absence is palpable. Ciri doesn’t chatter as much as she used to. There’s a quiet about them both as they move about the continent.

Jaskier would-

Jaskier can’t do anything now. 

Jaskier is probably in some forest somewhere as far away from Geralt as he can possibly get, his humanity slipping away with each passing moment.

_ If he’s even still human at all,  _ Geralt thinks. The acrid scent of Jaskier’s burning flesh still lingers in his nose. The first person he’s ever truly been able to call a friend, and he  _ curses _ him. 

Geralt has interacted with a faerie only once in his life and entirely by accident. He was fresh out of Kaer Morhen at the beginning of his journey when he came upon a fox with its leg caught in an iron trap. Geralt has never considered himself cruel. He released the creature by prying the jaws of the trap open, allowing it to dart to freedom. The animal dashed into the underbrush, where it studied him with its too-intelligent eyes before disappearing into the forest.

He felt unsettled for the rest of his journey.

It wasn’t until he told Vesemir years later about the experience that the older man told him he had probably run across a member of the Fae. 

He was lucky to have his head still, he’d been warned.

The Fae were a dark and mysterious people known for their powerful magic and penchant for vanity and tricks.

In hindsight, he should have known what Jaskier was.

He and Ciri stop to set up camp for the night. She’s _ gotten so much better at this _ , he thinks. She doesn’t need any instruction or guidance. He watches her set off on her own to set out some snares. He’s proud of her. 

He’s felt uneasy all day. Off-kilter. There’s something in the air that prickles his senses. The clearing they’ve found is quiet. Unnaturally quiet. He sets about building a fire and tries to set his mind to the task, but he can’t quite settle himself-

A bird suddenly flushes from the underbrush startling a yelp from Ciri and causing Geralt to snap to attention. 

It’s the only reason the crossbow bolt misses its mark as it whizzes just past his head and buries itself in the trunk of a tree. 

  
  


An ambush.

  
  


It’s an ugly fight. One he should have been better prepared for. He tells Ciri to run, and she just doesn’t _ listen _ -

There are seven of them. 

Then there are six.

One of the crossbow bolts lands true before Geralt can strike the attacker down. He grunts as pain swells in his shoulder, but he doesn’t let him slow.

There are five.

Then four.

Three.

One of them makes for Ciri thinking she’s vulnerable-

He hears her blade meet his flesh.

Two then.

There’s a cry from his left. He turns to see one of the men clutching at his face-

His eyes-

They’re  _ gone _ .

There’s a screech, and he realizes-

The man falls to his knees, and Geralt takes his head.

The bird from before digs its talons into the final archers face.

Geralt takes the opening and cuts the archer down.

The bird bolts into the trees, the leaves rustling ominously. 

Jaskier stumbles from the wood, his legs shaking like a fawn’s. He looks so different from what Geralt remembers but at the same moment _exactly_ _ the same- _

His hair’s longer but his  _ eyes _ . There the same blue they’ve always been crystal clear and  _ wild _ . His skin is mottled green in some places, almost like the earth is growing from his very flesh.

The smell of smoke hits Geralt’s nose, and he can see it now rising from Jaskier’s skin like he’s on  _ fire- _

Geralt closes his eyes. The pit the settles in his stomach is familiar. Almost like an old friend.

The rush of joy at seeing Jaskier - humanoid and whole - is immediately yanked from his grip. 

“Hello, Geralt. Nasty business, that,” Jaskier’s voice is light. Even though Geralt can’t see him, he can picture his face. 

“I kept your clothes,” he hears himself say, “they’re in my pack.”

“I’ll stay here so you can turn around then,” Jaskier says.

Geralt is reluctant to turn his back to him, but he does. It seems a physical weight, the act of opening his eyes. The pain in his shoulder - he’d almost forgotten. It comes back like a flood—one more thing to tend to. 

He finds Jaskier’s previously discarded clothes quicky and tosses them over his shoulder. He can hear Jaskier’s bare feet padding through the grass. The slow draw of his breath. The scratch of the fabric against his skin as he pulls his clothing back on. 

Geralt can practically feel the man’s (man’s?) breath against the back of his neck. He intentionally doesn’t react when he feels Jaskier’s touch at his back. Jaskier’s fingers skate across his back until they reach his shoulder, finding the arrow still embedded in Geralt’s flesh. In an instant, the arrow is gone. As is the wound. The pain. The blood. The hole in his clothing.

Gone. 

He does nearly when he feels Ciri take his hand. She looks at him grimly before her eyes glance back to Jaskier.

“You were following us,” she says as she inspects the area where Geralt’s wound  _ should be. _ It’s not accusatory.

Jaskier’s gentle laugh seems to rattle the underbrush around them.

“I’m afraid I spent quite a bit of my magic casting protection over you, my dear. It’s most effective when I’m close in proximity.” He lets out an airy sigh. “I was trying my best to be as unobtrusive as possible. Since I can’t play my lute or sing like I normally would, I figured this was the best use of my new talents.”

The burning smell is receding.  _ He must be healing _ , Geralt thinks. He studies Ciri’s face. What must she be seeing? What does she think of the man - the creature - in front of her. Jaskier’s footsteps are getting closer. “If it’s all the same, I’ll find a place to sleep in the wood tonight. Holding an animal shape takes an amount of energy I don’t have right now.”

“Jaskier-” Geralt tries.

“Goodnight, Geralt. Princess. I’ll see you in the morning.” He can hear Jaskier walking away, the soft pad of his feet disappearing beyond the trees.

Eventually, the only things he can hear are the cracking of their fire.

Ciri’s breathing.

His own pounding heart.

  
  


It’s still too quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna share this story here's a rebloggable [link](https://monroesherlock.tumblr.com/post/612347558351814656)
> 
> Also, have some Fae Jaskier aesthetic   
> 


	5. Chapter 5

Ciri wakes to chilly air tickling her nose. The sky is clear and bright above her. 

Geralt is already up, moving around, and packing up their small camp. He's moving slower than usual, she notes. His eyes flicker to the dense forest just beyond the small clearing they'd slept in. 

Jaskier.

She's seen him before all this, of course. Back when her grandmother was still alive, and he had come to play for court. He'd even come on her birthday once before. It had been a marvelous party.

Ciri had never been allowed to talk to him though, her grandmother having expressly forbidden it. She thinks now that it was his tie to Geralt. The secrets (well,  _ secret _ ) he could've told her about her connection to the white wolf. Either way, she'd only ever known him has the jovial bard who appeared once a year and pranced and sang and seemed to fill everyone around him with joy and laughter.

The creature that emerges from the wood bears little resemblance.

He appears as a man instead of some strange animal like before. He's wearing the clothes Geralt gave him the day before and looking up at the sky. 

"It's going to rain tonight," he says.

She looks up. There are no clouds.

"Hopefully, we'll reach a town by then," she says neutrally.

Jaskier studies her then, his eyes narrowing, and his lips curling in what  _ might  _ be a smile?

"Hello, lion cub," he says. "You're taller than when I saw you last."

"You didn't see me while you were following us?" She keeps her voice level, but the accusation still rings through.

Jaskier barks a laugh. "Everyone looks big to a bird, princess," he says, "but I can see you clearly now."

She does not shrink under his gaze.

(Even though she wants to.)

Just two years ago, she would have been thrilled to say she'd met a faerie. She'd read so many stories as a child about faeries with glittering wings singing songs in fields of flowers. She'd always imagined them as light and airy little creatures filled with goodwill if a bit of mischief. Mouseack had even told her that, when someone helps a faerie, they'll grant that person a wish.

' _ Faeries hate to be in debt to humans. If you do something for them, they'll do something for you. That's powerful magic, princess, _ ' he'd said. __

Magic powerful enough to not just heal wounds but make them disappear liked they'd never existed in the first place. Magic powerful enough to shift into an animal and back. Magic powerful enough to shake the very land. 

That isn't  _ trivial _ magic. Jaskier is dangerous.

Ciri knows she has her own power. It bubbles out of her. Even though she's gained _ some _ control, it still sometimes ruptures when she least expects it. It's a slow road.

-

Jaskier helps them finish packing up camp. It's a quiet task. Even more subdued than usual, she thinks. Once everything's packed, Ciri sets to work saddling her white mare while Geralt saddles Roach. 

Jaskier walks between them. He hums as he moves, always a careful few steps behind Geralt.

Geralt rides stiffly, his posture deliberate. They don't talk. Any looseness that had grown between him and Ciri is gone.

She hates it.

They ride for hours before they finally reach a small township. She's grateful to see that it has an inn. It'll be nice to sleep off the cold forest floor even if it's only for a night. 

Geralt leaves her with the horses to go secure them two rooms and check to see if there's work nearby. Jaskier stays with the horses. Ciri observes him from a distance. She watches as he murmurs to them, pausing as if to let them respond. Every so often, he trills and pets their muzzles. 

Roach  _ lets _ him! 

Roach  _ still  _ barely tolerates Ciri. His eyes lock on Ciri. He winks at her.

She's had enough. Time to ask the hard questions.

"What do you want from him?" She demands. 

"From who? Be specific, Lion Cub," Jaskier hums.

"You know exactly who! What do you want from Geralt?"

Jaskier tilts his head, a contemplative look on his face.

"There's a war, Lion Cub. It comes for all of us but particularly for  _ you _ . Where you go, he goes," he sighs. "I'd rather he not die." 

She can't help but think of Yennefer. Of the people who came before her and Geralt. All the men and women who've died trying to keep her safe. There are too many ghosts. 

"You're protecting him. I've traveled with him for over a year now and, I have to say Geralt does a pretty good job of protecting himself."

"Perhaps it's for my peace of mind then, Lion Cub. I like the people I care about alive. I also made promises," he shrugs. "I knew your mother. Did you know? She was able to detect my nature even back then, when all I could do was whisper the most basic of enchantments. Sighs of protection," there's a wistful look on his face. "It was enough for her, though, for me to bless you."

The feeling that floods her chest at the mention of her mother is both familiar and not. Her memories are so fleeting. She wants to ask-

Jaskier's eyes are knowing. 

"You were profoundly loved," he says. 

Something in her shatters at that. Something she'd been holding tight to keep herself going. She doesn't realize there are tears until she feels Jaskier's thumb wiping them away. He does something with his fingers, and suddenly he's holding a flower. 

A dandelion. 

He tucks it behind her ear. "Go get some sleep, little Lion Cub. Tell Geralt that I'm still not fond of sleeping within walls. I'll find a spot close and rejoin you both in the morning," Jaskier pets Roach one last time before he leaves her standing in the stable.

Something wet hits her shoulder. She looks up to the sky.

It's begun to rain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking about Jaskier as Ciri's unexpected fairy godfather. It's kind of a weird thought. 
> 
> If you wanna share this story here's a rebloggable [link](https://monroesherlock.tumblr.com/post/612347558351814656)


	6. Chapter 6

Something’s killing the town’s livestock. Geralt can’t get a clear description from the innkeeper, but he’s worked with less and gotten results. He'll handle it tomorrow once the rain has passed, and he’s assured Ciri’s safety. For now, he needs to make sure Ciri eats and that both of them get to bed. She’d seemed unsettled when she returned from the stables to sit down across from him for dinner. He didn’t ask after Jaskier (though he wanted to), but she told him anyway that the bard would be sleeping in the woods. 

Whatever’s been stealing livestock could be anything from a simple animal to a dangerous beast. Geralt refuses to let that worry him.

He can’t. There are too many things to focus on. 

Yenn’s still gone. 

The war’s still chasing them.

Winter’s settling in.

And he still can’t look at Jaskier-

He barely tastes the food as it goes down. Ciri must either pick up on his mood or be in her own little world because she’s quiet for the rest of their meal. They retire to the adjoined rooms for the night, Geralt securing her door as best he can. After he checks the locks himself (there was an incident four months ago), he allows himself to venture into his own room and prepare for bed. 

It’s a deliberate task, trying to get his body to rest. He’s exhausted, of course. They’ve been going nonstop. He feels the weariness in his very bones, but his eyes just won’t close. His muscles won’t unclench. 

He allows his mind to drift as he lays in the tiny bed. It’s a pastime he rarely allows himself. He thinks of the upcoming journey back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Of the strange family he’s cobbled together all in one place for once. He thinks of Yennefer off to who knows where doing who knows what. He thinks of Ciri, still so young but stronger than so many. 

He thinks of Jaskier- 

Geralt releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes drift to the corner of his room. 

The forest lies just beyond these walls, dark and expansive. Jaskier is somewhere within the shadowy branches, hopefully, comfortable and safe for the night. 

Geralt allows himself to remember the brief look he had gotten at Jaskier just a day ago. He’d appeared nude after changing back into his humanoid form before Geralt had given him his clothes back. Geralt’s mind lingers on the memory of the curve of Jaskier's hip before he shakes himself away from that thought. It does nothing to ease the itch under his skin, the tension that’s keeping him awake. His thoughts drift instead to Jaskier’s bright eyes. His mouth. His voice. Geralt groans and finally gives in. He takes himself in hand, the blush of Jaskier’s pink lips in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t waste time, just pulls himself to completion, his body going taut as a bowstring as he climaxes.

The rush of self-loathing that comes after really should’ve been expected. It’s familiar but distinctly unwelcome. His body is looser than before, but not by much. 

It’s enough.

Geralt wakes before the sun feeling even more restless than before. He'd kicked off his thin blanket in his sleep, and there’s little protecting him from the cold air. 

There’s a terrible odor coming from somewhere in the room. It wasn’t there when he’d fallen asleep. 

He gets to his feet, the scent getting stronger as he moves about the room. He looks to the door, but It’s still locked just as he left it before he laid down to rest. He goes to arm himself but finds his gear isn’t where he left it. 

Someone’s been in his things while he was asleep. 

He stalks across the room, opens his pack, and nearly vomits when he finds the source of the rancid smell. It’s the head of some beast that's been mauled past the point of recognition. Even more unsettling is the fact that it and the entire rest of his pack are covered in _bloodied flowers._

Jaskier.

Jaskier was in his room last night, and Geralt hadn’t even _known_ -

Dread settles in his stomach. How close had Jaskier been the entire night? Had he heard? Sensed? 

Geralt closes up his pack and sets to getting dressed. He needs to find the bard and _quickly_.

Patrons of the inn whisper about a disheveled strange-looking man who smells of death talking to the horses in the stables. When Geralt rounds the corner, he catches sight of Jaskier’s bloodied doublet and covers his eyes with his hand. Jaskier stinks of blood but not his own. It’s hours old.

“Jaskier,” he calls as he steps forward. He keeps one hand out in front of him so as not to knock into anything and tries not to flinch when he feels Jaskier’s hand against his arm.

“I wondered when you’d wake up. This is late for you,” he says. There’s familiar mirth in his voice that works to ease the rolling of Geralt’s stomach. 

“Hm,” Geral says evenly. “I wanted to come find you.”

“Oh? Well, don’t leave me in suspense. What did you need, Geralt?”

“It’s what I don’t need. You don’t have to kill monsters for me,” Geralt says. “I can do it myself.” 

Jaskier’s snort of laughter is unexpected. "I didn't do it for you, Geralt. I just wanted to sleep in peace, and that _thing_ wouldn't stop bothering me. I figured you could at least use the head to collect the reward.” Jaskier’s clawed fingers trail up Geralt’s arm to his shoulder. The same shoulder that had borne a crossbow bolt just a few days ago. Jaskier taps the would be wound twice and clicks his tongue. The scent of blood is more potent. It must still be under his nails.

 _From when he tore whatever that was to pieces,_ Geralt thinks.

“This healed up nicely,” Jaskier says, distracting Geralt from the distressing thought. “No pain?”

“No. No pain,” Geralt mutters. 

“Good.” Jaskier’s hand disappears from Geralt’s arm, and it’s a struggle not to step even further into Jaskier’s space.

"There’s a nice crowd today. I would sing today if I could," there’s a longing in Jaskier’s voice. The rolling sensation is back. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says quietly. He doesn’t know how to express how sorry he is other than to say the words. 

“I don’t know why you’re apologizing. I already told you you were forgiven. There are worse things than not being able to sing in this form, Geralt. Who knows? One day I may be able to again.” Geralt’s breath hitches when he feels Jaskier pull his hand away from his face. He keeps his eyes closed, resists the temptation to gaze upon Jaskier’s face. He doesn’t deserve the privilege. He manages to keep himself still when he feels the pad of Jaskier’s fingers against his eyelids.

His cheek.

His chin.

"Good morning, Lion Cub," Jaskier says, his hand falling away.

Geralt hadn't even heard Ciri approach, but he hears her clearly now. 

Strange. That's never happened before.

"Let's get breakfast, Geralt. We'll bring some out for you if you want, Jaskier," Ciri tugs at his sleeve.

"I'll be okay. I ate already, but you two should go. I'll be here when you're ready to move on," Jaskier says. Geralt can picture his face, the soft smile he's probably granting Ciri. The next time she pulls on his sleeve, he goes leaving Jaskier where he stands. 

"You can open your eyes now," Ciri says. He does. Ciri's staring up at him, a crown of buttercups in her hair. "We match," she says, a smile on her face, "you should wear more flowers. If Jaskier sticks around, I'm sure you will."

Geralt plucks one of the stray petals from his hair. 

If it keeps Jaskier around, it might be worth it to being inundated with flowers. 

A small price to pay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna share this story here's a rebloggable [link](https://monroesherlock.tumblr.com/post/612347558351814656)
> 
> Also, have some more Fae Jaskier aesthetic
>
>> [JASKIER AESTHETIC](//imgur.com/a/2Jo2tKa)  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

The first snow of the season has just begun to fall when they reach Kaer Morhen. Geralt can barely hold in his sigh of relief when the old keep finally comes into view. Food, shelter, and a sliver of peace would not go unappreciated after such a challenging year. He knows he and Ciri both will benefit from a period of rest. It will be good not to have to continually look over their shoulders even if it’s only for a few months. It should be easier for Yennefer to find them again now, too, he thinks. Geralt tries not to worry about her. 

He knows she wouldn’t appreciate it. 

Vesemir greets them at the gate with a nod, his keen eyes locking on the stag Geralt knows is trailing just behind Roach and Ciri’s mare. The old Witcher spies the strange deer suspiciously. 

Knowingly. 

Fuck.

Geralt can’t get a word out before Ciri’s off her horse and tossing herself at the old Witcher. Vesemir returns the embrace, but his eyes never leave the new creature.

Great.

Geralt has been dreading explaining Jaskier. How does he articulate that he fucked up so badly that now he’s traveling with a faerie he can’t even see?

Vesemir allows them inside, nodding as Ciri chatters next to him. She’s anxious to resume her training, it seems. Vesemir assures her that, yes, she can have her old room, and no, he didn’t change anything while she was gone. His eyes flicker from her to Geralt periodically and then back to where Geralt assumes Jaskier is. 

When Geralt goes to stable Roach and Ciri’s mare, Vesemir follows.

So does Jaskier.

Vesemir watches intently as Geralt deliberately unpacks his gear from Roach’s back and removes his saddle. They’re both steadfastly ignoring Jaskier who’s found his way into one of the stable’s empty stalls. Geralt listens to Jaskier pad around before he finally, Geralt assumes, lays down.

“Do you know what you’re doing with that?” Vesemir finally asks, his voice low as he gestures vaguely in the direction Jaskier went.

Geralt honestly has no idea what he’s doing. 

“Yes,” he says anyway.

“And you know  _ what _ it  _ is _ ?”

“Yes.”

Vesemir is shaking his head. 

Geralt understands the sentiment. 

“I swear every time you come back, it’s something new. How did you get mucked up with a creature like that?”

“It’s a long story,” Geralt says, but he doesn’t volunteer it. Right now, all he wants to do is finish grooming Roach, get something to eat, and try to get some sleep.

Vesemir must sense that he’s not going to get anything else out of Geralt for the night. Geralt deliberately keeps his eyes on Roach’s back as Vesemir leaves. 

A fine mess indeed.

He starts at the sharp  _ crack _ of bone snapping and reforming as Jaskier shifts back into his humanoid form. Geralt swallows his uneasiness at the sound and begins dutifully sifting through his pack to find Jaskier’s things. He passes Jaskier the change of clothes he brought. They’ve gotten good at this in the last few weeks, the handoff. He hears the rustle of fabric as Jaskier pulls on the offered clothes and stands on shaky legs.

“So, this is your home? It’s just as dreary as I always imagined,” Jaskier’s voice is hoarse from disuse, but there’s humor there. Geralt will never admit it, but it’s good to hear him speak again. 

The next few days are spent with Jaskier trailing behind him everywhere he goes. On the training grounds. The library. The  _ bath _ . Jaskier sits just out of his line of sight, making little noise. 

The only time Geralt is genuinely alone is when he retires for the night and even then-

His thoughts of Jaskier won’t leave him alone. Geralt is ashamed just thinking of the number of times he’s brought himself to completion with visions of Jaskier’s face in his mind’s eye. It’s become almost routine now. 

When he wakes, Jaskier is there waiting for him just out of sight, but Geralt always knows he’s there. He can hear the bard’s breath, clings to the sound of it throughout the day. The little hiccups of laughter as he plaits Ciri’s hair for the morning. The soft hum as he watches Geralt train—the lilting sigh as he finally opens one of the many journals littered around the library. 

He’s taken to writing again, Ciri tells him. It fills Geralt with a strange relief. Writing is a  _ human  _ thing to do. He begins to hear the  _ scritch _ of a quill against paper whenever Jaskier is near and breathes deeply. Maybe there can be an end to this, after all.

\--

“Why are you traveling with a faerie, Geralt?” Vesemir finally asks one day. He’s been patient, Geralt thinks. They’re sitting in the library. It’s bitter cold, and it’s only a matter of time before the others join them for the winter. They’ll want to know why Geralt’s brought a creature into their midst.

Geralt has never been able to hide from his mentor. He tells Vesemir everything, his eyes trained on the table in front of him the entire time. The old Witcher listens intently, his frown deepening as Geralt tells the story. From the mountaintop to Kaer Morhen and everything in between. When he finishes, he feels even more exhausted. It was more difficult than he thought it would be.

“You’ve always known how to make a difficult situation worse,” Vesemir sighs.

“Thanks,” Geralt snorts.

“You know he’s dangerous.”

“Aren’t we all?” 

Vesemir shakes his head, but he doesn’t disagree. It’s not a victory, but Geralt will take it anyway.

\--

He wakes to Jaskier sitting at the foot of his bed, his curious eyes locked on Geralt’s face. It takes Geralt a moment to realize what- _ who _ he’s looking at before he rushes to close his eyes.

“Oh. You’re awake,” Jaskier laughs like the room doesn’t suddenly smell lightly of smoke. Like his flesh hadn’t only just begun to _ burn _ .

The bedframe creaks as Jaskier shifts position, his knee pressing against the exposed flesh of Geralt’s shin. His sleep pants have rucked up at some point in the night. Geralt resists the urge to right them.

“Wh-why are you here, Jaskier?” Geralt forces out, his voice still rough with sleep. He realizes then he has no idea where Jaskier has been sleeping if he’s been sleeping at all. 

“There was a wolf denning in my spot for the night, so I came back here. It’s sort of poetic, don’t you think. Leaving one wolf to watch over another?” Jaskier clicks his tongue, and Geralt hears him shift again until he’s lying next to Geralt on the bed, his chest flush against Geralt’s side. 

What the  _ fuck _ is going on?

He can hear the slow exhale of Jaskier’s breath right next to his ear and tries his best not to react lest he give himself away. He focuses on the howl of the wind outside. On Ciri’s soft snores from across the hall. Anything but the feeling of Jaskier shuffling against him as he tries to get comfortable. Geralt wishes for once that he’d worn a shirt to bed. He holds in a shudder at the feeling of Jaskier’s long fingers beginning to play with the ends of his hair. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, cutting through the night’s quiet, “are we ever going to talk about it?”

“About what?” Geralt tiredly replies. It feels like Jaskier is tying something into his hair again. It’s not a  _ bad _ feeling. Just strange having him so close, having anyone so close. 

“About-my hearing got better, you know? When I changed,” Jaskier says, and he lets the silence hang. Geralt has no idea what he’s talking about.

Jaskier’s hands still in his hair, and he sighs. “You say my name sometimes,” he says finally, “at night.” 

All at once, the bottom drops out of Geralt’s stomach. What is he supposed to do? Apologize? Feign sleep? Pitch himself from the nearest balcony? 

Jaskier resumes whatever designs he has for Geralt’s hair, the quiet now sitting too heavy on Geralt’s chest. 

“I won’t do it again,” he finally says.

“That’s not what I meant. I just-you could’ve just asked,” Jaskier chirps, and Geralt can hear the patience in his voice. “You have to know that it’s you, Geralt. It’s  _ always _ been you.”

That is…

Not what Geralt expected. To be honest, he doesn’t quite know what he expected. It’s too much. He wants to say something, but the words are stuck in his throat.

Jaskier begins to hum gently, and Geralt can feel the shift of magic in the air. It’s an already achingly familiar presence. He’s pictured Jaskier in his bed before but never quite like this. Never with him feeling so unsettled. 

“I don’t know how to do this if I can’t see you,” he says finally, his voice quiet.

“Do you trust me?” Jaskier asks, and there’s a mischief in his voice that simultaneously worries Geralt and, yet, still  _ entices _ him. He can picture Jaskier’s amused expression. The soft flush of his cheeks. His sharp teeth biting into the pink of his lower lip. 

An enticing image indeed.

“Against my better judgment, yes,” Geralt replies evenly.

He keeps himself entirely still when he feels Jaskier’s long fingers trail up his cheek, across the bridge of his nose until his hand is covering Geralt’s eyes. He shifts, and suddenly Geralt’s being  _ kissed _ . He can feel the pinpricks of Jakskier’s sharp teeth, the warm heat of his tongue laving against his own. Jaskier tastes like blood, like a fresh kill. Geralt lets out a gasp as the kiss gets rougher, groans when he feels Jaskier move to straddle his hips. His hands find the firm curve of Jaskier’s ass, and Geralt can’t help but  _ squeeze. _

Jaskier whimpers against him and pulls away.

“Geralt,” he sighs softly, and Geralt has never heard his name spoken like that before. Like it’s something precious. He doesn’t think he can handle it. 

“Wait here,” Jaskier says, and suddenly his weight is gone leaving Geralt feeling more exposed than he’s felt in months. He can hear Jaskier rustling around the small room, obviously seeking something. 

The relief that fills when he feels Jaskier’s weight dips the bed once again should be inspected at a later time when Geralt isn’t feeling so off-balance. 

“Still trust me?” Jaskier asks playfully.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Jaskier climbs atop him again, his warm body a pleasant weight against Geralt’s flesh. He rests his hands on Jaskier’s muscled thighs, and again he’s being kissed within an inch of his life. Jaskier’s mouth is burning hot and seeking. He takes everything Geralt has to give, his teeth nipping at Geralt’s lips. His cheeks. His  _ throat. _ Geralt shivers when he feels Jaskier’s fingers skate ever so lightly against the flesh of his torso, the soft promise of claws just barely knicking his skin. Jaskier cups his cheek and Geralt feels it then:

A smooth band of fabric being lightly draped over his eyes.

“Is this okay?” Jaskier asks, his voice soft and breathless. Geralt nods and lifts his head so Jaskier can tie the blindfold. It’s a loose knot. One Geralt could easily remove if he wanted.

Jaskier must like what he sees because he makes a noise Geralt has never heard a human make. Something in between a trill and a  _ purr, _ but before Geralt can ask, Jaskier rocks his hips, and Geralt’s trail of thought disappears. He groans as when he feels Jaskier’s hard cock and hates that fabric separates them. Jaskier sets a lazy pace, his hips rocking ever so slightly. The little pleased-sounding gasps he lets out are _unbearable_. 

It’s  _ maddening,  _ he thinks . He can't take it so, he tightens his grip on Jaskier’s hips and does the work himself. Jaskier goes willingly, melting against Geralt’s hold, his hips canting to meet Geralt’s thrust for thrust.

He swears the entire room  _ shakes _ with every ragged breath Jaskier takes. His hips stutter against Geralt’s, his breath hitching as he comes soaking his sleep clothes. Geralt startles when he feels Jaskier’s claws shred through the front of his pants to get to Geralt’s cock. The bard takes Geralt in hand, his cock already slick with precome. Jaskier’s grip is unrelenting as he fists Geralt’s hard cock, his thumb trailing over the head. 

“I knew you’d be like this,” he says softly. “I hoped anyway.”

“ _ Jaskier-” _

Geralt groans deeply when he comes, his release splashing against his bare stomach. Jaskier makes that strange noise again, and Geralt can’t help but moan at the feeling of him dragging his fingers through the mess now covering his belly. He feels Jaskier’s weight slide from his hips and nearly knees the bard in the face when Jaskier’s begins in lapping up the cooling seed. He feels the slow drag of Jaskier’s tongue against the flesh of his abdomen. 

The v of his hip.

_His softened cock_. 

Geralt can’t help but moan as Jaskier swallows him down, his tongue swirling over the head of his softened cock. He’s never wanted so badly to see a lover’s face, to see _Jaskier’s_ f ace _. _

The bard eventually releases him, pulling off of Geralt’s cockhead with an audible  _ pop _ and a smack of his lips. Geralt relies on his memory. What had Jaskier looked like when sneaking back into their shared rooms after returning from a conquest?

Geralt wishes he had paid more attention. Would his eyes appear bluer? His lips kiss bruised and red?

He sighs as Jaskier slides back into place beside him and presses the softest of kisses to his lips. 

Geralt falls asleep with Jaskier pressed up against him, a beacon of warmth. 

When he wakes, Jaskier is gone. 

His presence, however, remains. When Geralt's eyes finally clear from sleep, he's surprised to see his room is draped wall to wall in dandelions.

Jaskier has never done things by halves. (To be fair, neither has Geralt.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again. how's everyone doing? this chapter took me a minute. it's been a while since I've written anything like this. come visit me on Tumblr. I started a new writing blog where I can share some of my favorite works by other authors and I can post sneak peeks. also, I'm bored. 
> 
> want to help boost this story? 
> 
> Here's a [link](https://lynn-reads-and-writes.tumblr.com/post/614478698769465344/granted-bittlebarnes-monroesherlock-wied%C5%BAmin#post-notes)


	8. Chapter 8

To be honest, Yennefer had hoped never to lay eyes on Jaskier in any form ever again. Her arrival at Kaer Morhen had been ultimately uneventful. She loathes the old keep, but she cares deeply for Geralt, and she  _ loves _ Ciri. 

Her arrival is met with a simple nod from Vesemir, the old goat. She’s surprised she’d gotten even that as he’d barely spared her a glance the last time she’d stayed for the winter. Geralt and Ciri are nowhere to be found. ‘It’s _ still night _ ,’ she reminds herself as she tries to tamp down the oncoming worry, ‘ _ they must have turned in for the night _ .’ She hadn’t written them to prepare for her arrival, unsure when she’d actually arrive. 

Her old room is just she remembers it. Even though Vesemir didn’t seem to care for her, he must have anticipated her returning with Geralt for another winter. She doesn’t know whether to be pleased with the convenience or annoyed at the presumption. 

“They’re asleep,” she hears a familiar voice say, “resting finally. I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to see each other in the morning.” 

Jaskier looks everything and nothing like she remembers. Someone’s finally taken a blade his mop of hair. It’s back to its regular length, curling around the tips of his ears. His clothing looks like a mess of scraps he’s collected from around the keep, all dark and far too large for him. He’s sitting on her dresser, picking through her leftover jewelry box.

“You seem better,” she says, and he does. He doesn’t look nearly as off-putting as before.

“The change is near complete, I think. My mind’s not as cloudy as before. The magic is becoming clearer. The glass...unfogging.”

Ever the poet it seems. 

The clink of her jewelry again catches her attention. 

“Are you a lark or a magpie?” She mocks.

Jaskier looks at her then. He parts his lips and lets out an unearthly chirr that rings in Yennefer’s ears and sends her head whirling. Still not quite human then. 

“What do you want, Jaskier? I mean,  _ really _ want? Why are you still here?” She demands. She’s had it with his foolishness, with his careless use of his magic. Faeries are dangerous. A faerie with Jaskier’s compulsions? Even more so.

“What I’ve always wanted,” Jaskier shrugs, “him.”

Of course. She should’ve known.

“He can’t even see you, bard.”

“Well, they do say love is blind,” he says as he plucks a broach from the bottom of her box. It’s a simple thing, amber in color. “This would look lovely in his hair.”

“And I suppose you’re not going to ask?”

He snorts. “Why? You left it here after the winter, so obviously you’re not rushing to wear it again. Besides, we both have to agree it’d look better on him.”

He’s right, but she won’t say so. Jaskier finishes his thievery and leaves her to her own devices, her room feeling even more uncomfortable than before. 

Sleep does not come easy, but she manages. She’ll have to tell Geralt the uncomfortable truth in the morning. 

\--

She finds him in the library. Geralt’s pulled a book on something (a manticore by the looks of the page’s drawings), and he’s writing something in a journal. Every so often he pauses, head ticked to the side as if listening-

Of course. Now she hears it too. The scritch of a quill moving against paper. Jaskier may not be in her sight, but he’s near. ‘ _ Of course, he is.’ _ She knows he won’t drift far from Geralt now, not if he’s come this far. 

She recognizes the look of blatant satisfaction on Geralt’s face. The relax of his shoulders. Of fucking  _ course _ .

“Do you enjoy sleeping with birds, witcher?” She chides him as she sits down. He doesn’t look surprised to see her. 

“He wasn’t a bird when we fucked,” Geralt says flippantly. The annoyingly fond look doesn’t leave his face. Jaskier’s salacious reputation must be well earned then.

She honestly can’t take much more.

“I did the research, Geralt,” she says finally. Time to lay out the truth. “I pulled from tomes no one’s looked in for  _ centuries _ . There’s no cure, no spell, no  _ countercurse _ . Faerie magic can’t be undone by non-faeries, and Jaskier can’t undo it because he’s bound to honor your wish. It’s done, Geralt. You’ll never be able to look upon him again.” 

Geralt composure slips then.

The quill stops its scritching. The bard must be listening too.

“You’re sure?” Geralt asks after a few moments of quiet.

“Am I ever unsure, Geralt?” 

His frown feels like it holds a physical weight. She hates to have to be the one to put it there.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I wanted to be able to fix him,” her words sound hollow even to her own ears. How must they sound to him?

\--

They’re out beyond the walls of the keep. Yennefer pulls her fur tighter around her body and hisses at the cold. Why Geralt insists on teaching Ciri to hunt in these conditions is beyond her. The princess seems thrilled about it, though, stumbling after him in her new winter clothing despite the snow. 

Jaskier keeps his distance. He trails quite a trek behind the pair, his eyes focused on something Yennefer can’t see. It’s unnerving, the way his unnatural eyes flit around the trees. She startles when he darts forward, his hands disappearing into the snow and reappearing holding a wriggling white hare. Ciri shouts in delight when she sees what he’s got. 

Jaskier returns her gleeful smile before wrapping his long fingers around the hare’s neck, and Yennefer can’t help but look away- 

The  _ snap _ turns her stomach. 

When she looks back, Jaskier is licking blood from his claws. He catches her eye and smiles, his sharp teeth glinting  _ red- _

And then there’s a bolt sticking out of his chest. 

Wait. That can’t be right.

There’s a  _ bolt _ sticking out of his  _ chest _ .

Jaskier looks just as surprised as she feels. The wound begins to smoke, and Jaskier screams-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the rest of the story plotted out. I just gotta write it. If you follow any of my other work you know I'm finishing up my thesis and getting ready to graduate so if there are any delays that's why. 
> 
> want to help boost this story?   
> Here's a [link](https://lynn-reads-and-writes.tumblr.com/post/614478698769465344/granted-bittlebarnes-monroesherlock-wied%C5%BAmin#post-notes)
> 
> come holler at me on my writing [blog](https://lynn-reads-and-writes.tumblr.com/) (or my [art blog](https://ja0netholmes.tumblr.com/) if that's more your fancy) for sneak peeks and stupid shit.


	9. Chapter 9

Geralt can hear Jaskier licking his fingers clean, can smell the fresh blood of a successful kill. He’s making a  _ chirring _ noise, clearly pleased with his catch. It’s still taking some getting used to, these strange new behaviors, but Jaskier, for the most part, seems whole and almost  _ human _ in some moments. Yennefer may be right. There’s a chance he may never get to look upon Jaskier’s face ever again, but just having the bard by his side again fills a void he hadn’t even known was there. 

Ciri’s high laughter fills the air. Her little face is red from the cold, but she actually seems  _ happy _ , the bright smile a welcome gift.  _ This feels right _ , he thinks. The four of them together finally. For once, the future doesn’t seem so dark. He can hear Jaskier behind him chittering at Ciri, reveling in her giggles. She should always be this happy.

The wind shifts, a scent he recognizes drifting through the air. There’s the sound of a  _ crack _ from somewhere behind them and a familiar voice telling Geralt and Ciri to  _ get the fuck down _ \- 

  
  


And then Jaskier is  _ screaming _ . 

  
  


All at once, the trees begin to rattle, and the earth shakes beneath their feet. Geralt can feel the snow shifting beneath him, struggles to keep his balance as the ground _ splits open.  _ Jaskier’s high scream pierces through his ears, and Geralt  _ has _ to look. He can’t not. 

There’s a bolt sticking out of Jaskier’s chest. Smoke  _ pours  _ from the wound, and Geralt can smell it-

_ Iron _ . 

Lambert’s already reloading the crossbow when Geralt takes him to the ground. 

“What have you done?” He hisses, and he can smell Jaskier’s blood from here. It reeks of acid. Of  _ rot _ .

“Killed the  faerie trying to steal your fucking child surprise? I have to finish it before it gets back up-”

“Jaskier!” 

Lambert lets out a cry of surprise as Ciri she runs to where Jaskier lay. She falls to her knees in the snow beside him and presses her hands to the wound. Within seconds Yennefer is next to her muttering about poison. 

“Geralt!” she shouts. “We have to get him back to the keep now!”

Geralt gets to his feet, leaving Lambert sitting dumbfounded on the ground. 

Jaskier’s entire body is shaking; his blood pooling blush pink in the snow around him. His breath comes out in wet pants as he cries. There are  _ tears _ in his eyes. 

“It hurts,” he whimpers. “Geralt, it  _ hurts _ .” Jaskier’s skin is turning red under Geralt’s gaze, but he can’t look away. He hefts Jaskier into his arms and tries to keep his eyes focused just over the top of the bard’s head. Yennefer’s already conjuring a portal.

“You’re going to be okay,” Geralt tells him, “I’m sure of it.” 

It sounds like a lie even to his own ears.

  
  


\--

  
  


Geralt doesn’t want to look, but he doesn’t trust anyone else to remove the bolt. Jaskier’s passed out by the time they get him into a bed. He doesn’t react to the fresh blistering of his flesh as Geralt stitches him up and bandages the wound. Jaskier will be back to normal in no time, he thinks. 

  
  


He hopes. 

  
  


He pleads.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Jaskier does not get better.

He never reawakens. 

Every magical intervention Yennefer tries, his body rejects. Heat radiates from his skin as a fever, the likes of which Geralt has never seen, sets in. When Yennefer pulls back the bandages, he  _ sees _ . The edges of the wound are black, as if scorched. 

Necrotic.

The look on Yennefer’s face tells him all he needs to know.

\--

“There’s something in the wood. Off to the east.” Vesemir tells him. “It’s killing everything living for at least a mile.” 

“That’s not a  _ thing _ ,” Lambert says breathlessly, “that’s a force of nature.” They’re standing on the east wall looking out over the mountain. He’s _ right, _ Geralt thinks. The stench of rot carries on the wind. Rotting flesh. Rotting wood. Rotting  _ earth _ . The trees haven’t stopped shaking since they brought Jaskier in. Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the noise.

He’s seen for himself the game Vesemir has dragged back from beyond the wood. The strange claw marks. The black blood. It’s clear something’s gone wrong. 

He fears they believe Jaskier is the cause.

He fears they may be right.

\--

As the days pass, it gets harder to breathe as if air simply refuses to enter his lungs. Geralt can’t stand the  _ smell. _ Jaskier’s scent is everywhere, but it’s all  _ wrong _ . It’s supposed to be wildflowers and lemongrass. Ozone and magic. Spice and  _ lust _ . 

The overwhelming aroma of decay is unwelcome.

Frankly, so are Vesemir’s sympathetic gazes and Lambert’s avoidance.

“ _ How was I supposed to know it was a  _ friendly _ faerie?” _ He overhears his brother explain, “ _ you ever hear of a faerie who didn’t want to steal a kid?” _

It’s all Geralt allows himself to listen to before he refocuses his attention instead on Jaskier’s breathing. It’s slowed, and Geralt dreads that it may soon stop completely-

He tries not to think of that. 

The next night, Yennefer joins him at Jaskier’s side. She sits far enough away from him to give him his space but close enough that he knows something his wrong. 

“He’s dying, Geralt,” she finally says, “he won’t survive the night.” 

It feels like he's been kicked in the chest by a horse. He’d known it was getting worse. Known the fever wouldn’t break but death-

“There must be something you can do,” he says, and he’s surprised how calm he sounds, how level his voice comes out. Yennefer shakes her head, her dark curls hiding her face. 

“There’s nothing. I’ve tried everything-”

He knows she’s tried. He's watched her surround herself in books and hastily scrawled notes. Read over her correspondence with Triss. Failure doesn’t feel good to either of them.

She flinches when he gets to his feet, the suddenness of his movement causing his chair to scrape against the floor loudly. If Jaskier is going to die, he doesn’t have to be there for it. He can’t. Can’t stand to be enveloped in Yennefer’s shame and Ciri’s tears.

It’s too much.

He leaves, the sound of the trees drowning out the voices calling after him. The air isn’t as thick, but the stench won’t go away. As he looks around, he can see what Vesemir was describing. There’s no foliage, even on the evergreens. No birds. No deer. Nothing.

Nothing alive, at least. 

He ignores the chill as he keeps walking further away from the nightmare playing out in what should have been the safest place for them.

The further he walks, the more his head clears. It’s getting dark, the snow falling harder. He knows he needs to go back. Ciri’s gotten attached to Jaskier. What must she be thinking, losing someone else? Yennefer and Jaskier will never be close, he thinks, but she longs for a family, for connection just as he does. And he’s left them both.

Again. 

If Jaskier were whole and healthy, he’d be so disappointed-

A crack of a twig catches his attention. There is something in the wood. Geralt can hear it clearly now over the roar of the trees. It’s finally close enough, its footsteps soft in the snow. Geralt draws his sword and tenses for a fight but-

The silver sword lands quietly in the snow and is quickly buried beneath the flurries. 

Geralt is gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end! I was super overwhelmed by the response to the last chapter. I'm responding to comments I promise. I'm not used to this level of engagement. It's motivating but also intimidating. I just hope you're all safe and well and enjoying this weird little diddy that popped into my head one day.
> 
> want to help boost this story?  
> Here's a [link](https://lynn-reads-and-writes.tumblr.com/post/614478698769465344/granted-bittlebarnes-monroesherlock-wied%C5%BAmin#post-notes)
> 
> come holler at me on my writing [blog](https://lynn-reads-and-writes.tumblr.com/) (or my [art blog](https://ja0netholmes.tumblr.com/) if that's more your fancy) for sneak peeks and stupid shit.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, let's do one last round of bittles describing weird shit with too few words 💗🌷🌴🍂🍃

When Geralt wakes, the first thing he notices is how warm he is. The sun shines bright, warming his face. There’s fresh grass tickling his nose. Strange. He was sure there had been snow. 

Wait.

There _had_ been snow. 

He sits up sharply, his head spinning at the sudden movement. He’s still wearing the same clothes he left the keep in. There’s even snow sticking to his boots. 

He quickly gets to his feet and looks around. He’s in a clearing surrounded by thick foliage. The sky overhead is a soft blushing pink, stars still visible through the plush clouds. Is it dawn or is it dusk? He can’t tell. The sound of rushing water narrowly reaches his ears. There must be a stream of some sort nearby. 

But from which direction?

The forest seems never-ending. Like he’s been swallowed up but the trees. Strange sounds echo from every direction, chirps, chirrs, and something akin to _screams_. 

It’s enough to get him moving. The noises are getting closer. He picks a direction and hastily walks. Whatever creature exists in these woods trails behind him, its feet treading near silently as it keeps pace with him through the underbrush.

Wherever he’s been transported, nether of his swords came with him. He checks his belt. His thigh holster. 

There’s nothing. He has no weapons, and the strange creature draws ever closer. He hears the tell-tale sound of bones cracking and reforming-

A shape-shifter.

“I told him men were cruel. Only knowing how to _take_. His father only ever took.” A musical voice carries through the leaves. Geralt braces himself as a figure steps into the light.

“Tell me? What is it you wished to take from _my_ child? His _voice_ ? His _heart_? And now you would take his life.” Her sharp nose is scrunched in disgust. 

She’s tall with sharp features and pale skin. Her dark hair is pulled up into a delicate coiffure, decorated with dainty blue flowers. She appears to be draped in petal-thin yellow fabric that looks plucked fresh from the stem.

“I know you, _Witcher_ . We’ve met before,” she says, and her blue eyes are _discerning._

Now that he can truly see her, her eyes- 

They’refamiliar.

A fox’s eyes.

_Jaskier’s_ eyes.

It’s so clear now. Jaskier’s mother is both everything and nothing like Geralt imagined. She shares more than just his keen blue eyes. Jaskier exists in the soft curl of her dark hair. In the pink of her lips and the cut of her cheeks. Her face is youthful like she isn’t more than twenty summers old but the energy that radiates off of her rings of decades, maybe _centuries_ -

Is this what Jaskier will look like one day?

Her eyes narrow, and Geralt can feel her rooting around in his head. He’s laid bare before her gaze, powerless to stop the invasion. The strange fabric covering her body begins to shift and part from her shoulders, and he realizes-

It’s not clothing at all. 

They’re _wings_.

“I see your desire, Witcher,” she says, “and I now use it to repay my debt to you. What is, is until it isn’t,” she shrugs. “It was, and now it’s not.” There’s no flash of light. Nothing to show that magic has been done, but Geralt _knows_. He can feel it radiating through his bones, rattling his teeth.

She flexes her wings, and the air around him seems to thin-

“What does that mean?” He tries to ask, but already the edges of his vision are darkening.

“Goodbye, Witcher. Please try not to kill my son again. Next time, I will not be so _gentle._ ”

It’s dark.

When Geralt wakes, the first thing he notices is that he is not alone. Ciri’s snuffling breath blows hot against his neck. She’s lying next to him, clearly asleep. There are dried tear tracks on her cheeks. He’s scared her, he knows, with his disappearing act. He won’t forgive himself for that.

“You’re awake! We were all quite worried, I’m afraid. Your brother, Eskel, not the one who shot me, found your swords out in the forest but he couldn’t find _you_ and-”

Jaskier sits next to his bed in a chair he’s pulled from somewhere. He looks whole and healthy like he hadn’t been on death’s doorstep just hours (days?) before, and Geralt is confused but also _grateful_. He listens as the bard chatters on about the search they’d undertaken for him and reminds himself that he won’t be able to look for long so he’ll have to savor these glances.

The healthy flush of Jaskier’s cheeks. The way his hair has begun to curl around the tips of his ears again. The brightness of his eyes. Geralt will miss this.

“-and you just _appeared_ in the keep out of thin air, and no one knew what to make of it, but you seemed healthy, just unconscious.”

Geralt braces himself for Jaskier’s wince of pain, but it never comes. There is no smoke.

Jaskier’s flesh isn’t blistering or turning red. 

_He doesn’t burn._

“Jaskier,” Geralt croaks out, “I can-I can see you.”

“Oh goodness, did you go blind out in those woods? They said you must’ve gone to fight something, but Vesemir didn’t know what. Are you just getting your vision back?” Jaskier meets his eyes, and Geralt watches as slow understanding finally dawns on him.

“Geralt...you’re looking at me. Like, directly at me,” he says.

“I can see you. She fixed it so I can see you.”

“She? Yennefer said she couldn’t break fae magic-” Jaskier jerks back, a look of dread overwhelming his features. “She took you, didn’t she. But she gave you back?” He says it more to himself than to Geralt, but Geralt understands all the same. 

“She never gives anything back. What did you offer her? Geralt, I need to know because she _will_ take it. If not now, eventually.”

“I didn’t have to offer her anything. She owed me a debt.” Geralt licks his lips. He’s thirsty.

“A debt?! Geralt, how and when-”

“You’re being _loud_ ,” Ciri groans from her place in between them. She shifts, her knee nudging painfully into Geralt’s thigh. She’s nearly too big for this he thinks, and there’s a sadness there. She’s almost a full adult. 

He glances back up to look upon Jaskier’s face and thinks the bard must be having the same thought. He reaches out and smooths Ciri’s hair before he touches Geralt. His fingers dance across Geralt’s cheek. His nose. His lips.

“Is it wrong that I wanted to be the first one to steal you away? To take you there?” He says softly. “To have you on endless fields of flowers away from all threats and all time?” 

Geralt can imagine it. When the war is over. When Ciri is on the throne where she belongs. When he can finally _rest_. Tucked away in an endless forest with nothing but this moment. It’s a deadly temptation.

Jaskier hums, that strange unnatural sound, and Geralt closes his eyes.

The smell of dandelions is in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story was really quite unanticipated and overwhelming. I started this little fic as a distraction from finishing my thesis and I'm finishing as a completed MA. It's been a wild shift. I may come back to this work and add some art. It's been a fun one to play with.
> 
> The playlist is in the text bc I couldn't get it to fit in the note don't drag me 🙃
> 
> This story was lowkey inspired by some of the horrific [noises foxes make](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6NuhlibHsM)
> 
> Want to help boost this story?  
> Here's a [link](https://lynn-reads-and-writes.tumblr.com/post/614478698769465344/granted-bittlebarnes-monroesherlock-wied%C5%BAmin#post-notes)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been tumbling around in my head. don't know if I should continue.


End file.
